


About Love and Fake Lemons

by pandibicth



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Coming of Age, Fix-It of Sorts, Gay Richie Tozier, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Richie Tozier-centric, Slow Burn, and not in richies kind, fix-it if you want to, for a very simple reason: im Unfunny, he was pining even when he didnt KNOW, kinda ooc ig because richie does not joke, like really interpret it like you want, well kinda i changed like 2 scenes the rest could be canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 11:08:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21135722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandibicth/pseuds/pandibicth
Summary: At the ripe young age of five years old, Richie Tozier had decided that girls were annoying. Richie thought that his mother wasn’t being objective because she was a girl, and because he already had a strong contradiction spirit, he promised to himself that he’ll never like girls. If Richie could remember that thought, he would probably laugh at the irony.Richie through the years, growing up and learning about himself.





	About Love and Fake Lemons

**Author's Note:**

> hello so a few things before we start first off richie is dealing with some internalized homophobia issues i dont think i made it too violent and i based it on my own experience with it but yknow watch out for that
> 
> uuuh also he does throw up a lot nothing too graphic or ed related but be aware of it  
also the whole thing with eddie does happen theres no talk of his injury i talk about his blood only once but yea
> 
> so uuuh CW: f slur q slur some vomit some mentions of injury and ig a panic attack keep in mind its all very mild but stay safe

At the ripe young age of five years old, Richie Tozier had decided that girls were annoying. They never wanted to play, whined when he pushed them too hard, never found him funny, and made fun of him because of his glasses. He just didn’t want to be friends with them, and didn’t see any other reason to try to talk to girls if they weren’t friend material. 

When he told that to his mom, she didn’t seem to take it seriously, which greatly annoyed him, because that was one time he was being serious, and his mom laughed like he was getting off a good one, like they said on TV. She told him that he was feeling like that now, but that girls will seem less gross when he'll be older. Richie thought that his mother wasn’t being objective because she was a girl, and because he already had a strong contradiction spirit, he promised to himself that he’ll never like girls. If Richie could remember that thought, he would probably laugh at the irony.

*

When he’s six years old, he meets Stanley Uris, and he dresses like a grown-up and doesn’t like to get dirty, he smells like the library in his dad’s office where he’s not allowed to go and hits Richie on the back of the head too often for his liking, but he’s funny and parents like him and he doesn’t get genuinely mad at him when he’s making mean jokes, so Richie decides he’s alright, takes his hand and tells him that they’re going to be best friends until they die. Stan only tells him that it's gross because Richie didn’t wash his hands after going to the bathroom, but he squeezes his hand a little, and Richie knows that means he agrees.

*

Richie Tozier is eight years old, and he officially has three friends. Most people wouldn't find that impressive, but Richie had to make do with no friends for more than half his life, and Bill and Eddie have a spot for them to play, the Barrens, and Bill always has ideas for new games.

Bill has red hair, but not the weird type of red hair where your eyebrows and eyelashes are red too, and Eddie has big brown eyes and bony knees, that Richie was well acquainted with because he kneed him in the stomach when he asked if his name was really Crapsack. 

It didn’t really matter though, because sometimes when he makes a joke with the right timing, or when he gets close enough to Eddie’s face, his ears will go very red, and he will respond half a second later than usual, and Richie feels like he is winning something very very important, even if he isn't yet sure what exactly.

*

Richie is standing in Mrs Kaspbrak’s kitchen, and it’s the worst thing ever. He’s there to patch Eddie up, because he skinned his knees on the sharp rocks of the quarry, and he was freaking out a worryingly amount, so Richie had softly rubbed his forearm, and made very few inappropriate jokes, and got him home on his bike’s luggage rack, thin arms wrapped around him, a tan temple pressed against his ugly shirt. Eddie takes his hand because his mom is going to yell at him, and Richie knocks on the door, unsteady on his feet, his socks still slightly wet.

Mrs K opens and is having an disproportionately big reaction. She frets and searches for disinfectant, still yelling and apparently never stopping to breathe. Apparently that's where Eddie got it. Richie squeezes Eddie’s fingers a little, and he feels him relaxing a bit at his side. The movement catches Mrs Kaspbrak’s attention. She looks at their hands intertwined, child hands, pale and a bit chubby, and she doesn't say anything, but Richie recognizes the look, it’s the same he gets when he picks up a worm from the ground at recess. Richie isn't sure why yet, but he knows it's disgusting. Eddie is blabbering about something he can't make out beside him, probably trying to tell his mom that it’s not that big of a deal, but Richie can’t hear anything because the whole world is tuned out, like when his dad lowers the volume of the TV on the remote.

All he can feel is the warmth of Eddie's hand against his, and the disgust in Mrs K's stare. Eddie's cheeks move with his mouth, freckles on his nose wrinkling every few words and he smells faintly of hand sanitizer and fake lemon. Richie slowly untangles their fingers, something burning in the back of his throat. Eddie stops talking long enough to catch his breath. He doesn't notice. The smell of fake lemon haunts him the rest of the day.

*

It's an exceptionally quiet night. Richie is either all alone in the big house or his mother is already passed out. He's not sure which one he prefers. It doesn’t matter because today had been a good day, a good day in between many others because it was summer, and during summer children run and play, shove each other and soak up in the sun, secretly smoke stolen cigarettes and bathe in dirty green water. Good days tend to blend together, while bad days always stick out starkly, grim against bright smiles and shared laughter. Good days tend to blend together, but Richie was sure that he would remember this day his whole life. 

The day he realized he was in love. He could almost picture himself giving a speech about it (He had a tendency to imagine himself relating moments of his life to an attentive audience, maybe on a talk show), maybe at his wedding, he dared himself to imagine. Richie was now thirteen, and he knew what was appropriate between two boys, and what versed into dangerous territory. He had traced that line in the sand with a stick after the burning look of Mrs Kaspbrak in her kitchen. He liked to cross that line under the pretense of jokes, still chasing after Eddie's red ears and fumbling speech after almost five years. Blowing a raspberry on his cheek, tickling his sides, interlocking their hands after a reluctant high five. It still felt like winning something very important, and maybe Richie was starting to see what exactly.

But today, Eddie had crossed the line, and Richie was still unsure if it was to mess with him or not. Richie raised a hand to his cheek, expecting to feel a burn mark where Eddie's fingers grazed it. Apparently he had some ice cream smeared on his cheek, and Eddie wiped it off with his thumb, licking the melted vanilla and calling it delicious, his gaze burning, Richie holding his breath, the world faded around them, a clever remark caught in his throat, leaving Richie's mind submerged under a million of questions, most of them asking about the germs, the rest increasingly embarrassing love confessions, some even asking Eddie to marry him.

He's curled on his bed, his right hand close to his face, almost touching his lips, and he's feeling more brave than he felt in a long time. "I love you, Eddie," he murmurs against his fingertips, his breath hot on his skin, the secret burning his tongue like the summer sun on his shoulders. He says it again, a little louder this time, and after it's like he can't stop.  
"I love you, Eddie," he says to his pillow, to his worn out comics, to Eddie's spare inhaler, to the sweater he forgot a month ago, to his pack of cigarettes Eddie says he hates the smell of, to Stan's ugly ragdoll he sew himself, to Bill's polaroid of Eddie going cross-eyed. He says it louder and louder, and has to stop himself from shouting it. He thinks he might cry of relief. His heart is bleeding past his lips, the words sacred in his mouth. "I love you, Eddie", he says to himself and he finds he has never meant anything as much as this.

*

Eddie is screaming directly into his ear, the back of his knees is sweating like crazy and they’re about to be murdered by a fucking clown. Richie has quite honestly never been that terrified in his entire life. He thinks faintly that if they make it out okay from this, he’ll never be afraid of Henry Bowers again. Eddie is still screaming, and Richie can see where the bone in his arm is sticking out, a disgusting violet bump shocking against Eddie’s tan skin. 

He takes Eddie’s face in his hands, willing his voice to steady. From the corner of his right eye, he can see the clown approaching them slowly, his hand now full of claws like the werewolf from that stupid movie, but the thought is only in the back of his head, everything in him screaming that he has to protect Eddie. “Look at me! Look at me!” If they can’t see it, it can’t see them. He thinks briefly of that stupid theatre rule, that if from behind the curtains you can see the audience, the audience can see you. 

He grips Eddie’s cheeks harder, his fingertips deforming the pattern of dark freckles. Eddie is still trying to look at the clown, and Richie has never wanted someone to look at him more. He takes a labored breath and brings Eddie closer, his sweaty forehead against his. “Look at me,” he says, just a touch lower, and Eddie releases a deep breath, the warmth of it fogging up a little Richie’s glasses. He can still vaguely smell the fruity candy he gave Eddie earlier, insisting that it wouldn’t give him cavities and that he knew because his father was a dentist. 

Eddie mutters his name weakly, and Richie thinks that there are worse ways of dying.

*

Richie hates crying in public bathrooms, firstly because it’s the most cliché place to cry in, maybe tied with the shower, and secondly because Richie hates crying in general, and especially where someone might hear him. He focuses on the graffitis on the walls, ignoring the sharp pain in his nose and the burning in his left side and cheek. Distantly, he hears the sound of his blood dripping on the dirty tile floor. 

It smells like piss and vaguely of a flowery perfume, probably because that’s where the seniors go to make out. The thought makes Richie irrationally angry, and he blinks through his salty, bitter tears, fumbling with his jacket pocket, searching for a pen. He uncaps the marker, and the alcoholic, fake smell of it reassures him, weirdly. 

“Richie Tozier sucks flamer cock” he writes angrily on the bathroom stall, hiding his secret in plain sight, pouring his soul into the grim wall, hidden behind harsh words and an easy disgust. He thinks maybe the scribbling is too honest. "Maybe I should add my phone number," he mutters to himself, feeling feverish. He doesn't even manage a weak chuckle, his voice fragile like one of the porcelain plates Eddie's mom collects. He jerkily wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, taking a proper breath for the first time in what feels like hours. He slams the door when he leaves.

*

Richie is fifteen, and he’s finally leaving. He told it to the remaining three losers a few weeks ago: Eddie, Mike and Stan, and he could already see the loss in their eyes. Ben had stopped calling five months ago, cleanly marking the pattern of forgetting that seemed to happen when people left Derry. Despite that, Richie is sure that he’ll remember, and he told as much almost everyday to the others, ignoring their look of disbelief. 

It’s different for him, he believes firmly, because he’s leaving behind one of the most important part of his life, a piece of his very soul. He’s leaving Eddie behind, and he can’t even think about it too long without his hands trembling. He’s in love with him, and he’s sure he will be his whole life. Eddie doesn’t know, because no one does, and no one even knows he’s queer, not even Stan, even if he almost told him a million times, but he’s still terrified of losing him, losing them all, terrified of hard shoves and cruel eyes, of the twist of disgust in their mouth. He can almost hear it, voices distorted by repulsion: “What, you like boys ? You’re a fag, you were all this time ? I can’t believe I let you sleep in my room, I can’t believe I let you hold my hand, I can’t believe I let you see me in my underwear,” 

The litany goes on and on, and Richie’s hands are balled into fists, shaking on his knees, the skin of his palms split open by his too-long nails.

He hugs Mike first, his head tucked in his shoulder, breathing in the smell of green grass and grown-up cologne, too grown-up for a fifteen year old, and bathes in the warmth spreading from Mike’s hand where it’s pressed against his shoulder blades. “Mike,” he mumbles embarrassingly when he pulls back, unable to say more without bursting into tears, his voice trembling, and Mike only smiles, a bright tear shining in the crease of a dimple. "I love you too," he says, simple and frank, and Richie's heart squeezes painfully in his chest.

Stan is pressed against him, and he still smells like his father's library, and the thought makes a tear roll down his cheek, followed by a dozen others when Stan tells him he's going to miss him, over and over, like a prayer. When he pulls back, Stan grabs his hand, his eyes shining in the afternoon sun. "We're going to be best friends until we die", he says, his voice soft, and Richie sobs, pulling him back in, his fist wrinkling the back of his ugly fucking button up.

When Eddie grabs him, his salty tears wetting the hem of his shirt, Riche honestly thinks he's not going to make it. He's not going to be able to leave. The thought is kind of comforting, but the car waiting for him honks before he can say it out loud, and Eddie squeezes him tighter. 

"Don't forget," he says, his breath hot against his ear "Don't you dare forget me, Tozier, or i swear I'll fucking kill you."  
"I won't," he promises, his vision blurry. "I'll call you every day, you'll get so sick of me, you'll tell me to never call you again", he adds, voice low enough to make sure that only Eddie hears him. Eddie sighs and Richie feels it on his cheek, right before Eddie presses his lips to the corner of his mouth, ambiguous and soft. "Don't forget that," he says, his eyes determined, and Richie hiccups. "Take it with you, and think of me every day."  
"I won't forget," he swears, like he would say I do in a church. "I won't forget," he says again, the same way he said "I love you Eddie", what seems like a lifetime ago, and thinks the sentences mean the same thing. 

The car honks again, and he hears his name shouted from the front seats, so he untangles himself from Eddie, missing the feeling immediately. He turns to his best friends in the whole world, and makes a shaky scout salute, his smile unconvincing with the hot tears staining his cheekbones and the front of his shirt.

"I won't forget," he whispers once more, tucked away in the backseat, his long legs folded to fit in the small car, his shirt pressed against his nose, where it's still a bit wet and smelling of fake lemon. 

*

He forgets.

*

Marcus‘ pinky is millimeters away from his, and Richie can’t breathe. The chatter and music around them blends together loudly, no one is paying attention to them, but the most fleeting of glances makes his shoulders slump and his skin itch, like he’s being watched by a whole theater. That shouldn’t even bother him, he usually likes that kind of attention, but at this time he feels like he might explode if anyone even thinks about him. He already had three shots, and someone shoved a ice cube in the back of his shirt, all the hairs on his forearms are standing up.

“Come with me,” he whispers in Marcus’ ear, a hand on the warm back of his neck, a thick strand of hair tickling subtly Richie’s nose.

The outside air is cold against his flushed skin, but Richie feels somehow even hotter, jittery, his heart beating a thousand miles an hour, something cold fluttering in his veins. Marcus grips his wrist tighter, his thumb pressed on his pulse point. Richie notices distractedly that he's sweating.

Marcus' hand slips lower, catching Richie's fingers between his, his face serious, nervousness visible in the wrinkle of his eyebrow. Richie inches closer, everything in him screaming, what if he rejects you, what if he beats you, what if he tells everyone, what if someone sees. Marcus leans in, barely shorter than Richie, and presses his lips on the corner of his mouth. Something curls in his stomach, ugly and slimy like shame, or maybe like guilt. 

The sound of the party is muted behind them, and someone definitely smoked weed out there, and Richie kisses a boy, seventeen and trembling. Marcus' apology dies in the back of his throat when Richie raises his hand to cup his jaw. Richie knows a little what he's doing, from the hazy certitude that he's kissed girls before, though he's unable to remember who exactly, and Marcus has the same sort of shaky confidence, a hand gripping the back of Richie's shirt, where it's still wet from the ice cubes, the other maintaining Richie's glasses up on his forehead, fingers buried in dark curls.

This is the best kiss Richie has ever had and he's going to throw up. Everything around him smells like Marcus, like his cologne and sweat, and he tastes like cheap tequila and apple juice, and everywhere his dark skin is touching Richie's, he burns like he's being marked with iron. He's going to throw up.

Marcus pulls away, slips his hand away from under Richie's shirt, and Richie misses immediately the sensation. He smiles subtly and Richie can see his teeth a little, white and kind of crooked in the front. "He needs braces," he thinks briefly, madly. Marcus' eyes are wide and very brown, the color obvious even in the bad light, and the thought makes Richie want to throw up even more, for some reason he doesn't understand. He mumbles something that he's pretty sure isn't a word, squeezes Marcus' bony fingers quickly, his heart sill hammering in his chest. 

He gets away, not running but almost, and shivering in his shirt, goosebumps on his thighs. "See you later, alligator," he yells shakily over his shoulder at Marcus' blurry silhouette, and he has no idea where that came from. He throws up in the bushes in front of his neighbor's house.

*

Richie’s hands are shaking, which is ridiculous, because he’s a grown man, and grown men don’t get panic attacks over simply entering a bar. A gay bar. A bar for gay people. People that go into this particular bar are gay. Richie wants to cry, something that hasn’t happened since forever, it seems. If he goes into the bar, everyone will know that he’s gay. 

He’s aware of how much he’s sweating, his hair is sticking to his forehead and the back of his knees is damp. “They’ll know I’m gay,” he repeats under his breath over and over, his voice nearly breaking.

Richie crouches on the sidewalk, searching for stability close to the ground. Passerbys are ignoring the 6’1 man having a meltdown in the middle of the street. He stares at a crack on the concrete that goes all the way to the entrance of the bar, and his heart hammers against his ribcage. He can’t think of anything else through the blood pounding in his head, can’t rationalize his anguish or calm himself down, his head is overwhelmed by the fact that people will know, will be able to know only by looking at him inside the bar, will be able to tell what he’s hiding. 

Burning tears roll down his cheeks, that he wipes angrily, thinking about a grating voice calling him disgusting. He throws up in a nearby trashcan. 

He enters the Walmart located a few streets away, still trying to steady his breathing. He likes supermarkets. He likes how everything is neat and tidy, how you can lose yourself in the aisles, drown in the billions of different products, get swallowed by capitalism. The more he buries himself in the maze of white tile floors, the calmer he is. 

He grabs a can of spicy Pringles and some gum that he starts chewing immediately because of the puke taste in his mouth. His feet take him to the pharmacy aisle, he’s unsure why, maybe to buy some deodorant, but he stops dead in front of the hand sanitizer. Lemon perfume, it says in flowery letters in a bottle at his eye-elevel, and it makes his head swim. “Fake lemons,” he says softly, barely audible, like a prayer or an incantation. It feels absurdly important, even in his voice roughed up by all the puking and crying. 

He buys two bottles of had sanitizer, a can of Pringles, a half eaten pack of gum, and a black Sharpie. The cashier has brown eyes and a stern expression, her knees bony under her red skirt. “Fun Friday night,” he says with a twitchy smile. “You have puke on your shirt,” she responds, a glint of amusement in her eyes. Richie likes her, he decides, and her bright red hair. “Can I tell you something?” he asks while she fumbles with the pack of gum, trying to smothen the barcode. She nods, her face neutral, a strand of hair falling from where it’s tucked behind her ear. “I’m gay,” he says, easier than he thought it would be. “You’re the first person I ever told.” He feels less like puking when he looks at her eyes. “Cool,” she says after the machine finally beeps. “That’ll be $21.74” 

“See you in a while, crocodile,” he blurts out as he’s leaving, and he can hear her chuckle lightly behind him.  
He takes an easy breath when he steps into the warm night, feeling brave for the first time in years.

*

"Hey, look at me please," he chokes out, broken and low, lips close to Eddie's forehead. He's blinking slowly, and he can feel his gaze get hazier. "Can I tell you something ?", he asks, drowning in panic and brown eyes, hands caged against his cold jacket, sticky with carmin blood. Eddie nods, and Richie hates the familiarity. "I love you. I love you, Eddie." The words come out easy, practiced, burning his lips exactly like they burned 28 years before. Nothing has changed, he thinks. "I love you, I always have, and I think I always will. I will love you for as long as I live." He presses his forehead against Eddie's. "I didn't know, I forgot, but somehow I-" He thinks of the curve of his smile, creasing smooth tan skin, he thinks of brown eyes and bony knees."I loved you still, for all these years I searched you, and I couldn't find you."

He closes his eyes, feeling Eddie's weak breath on his cheek, before he kisses the corner of his mouth. "Do you remember that?" he asks and Richie chokes out a hard sob, feeling his heart shattering. "I took it with me, and I thought of you everyday," he responds, registering faintly that his tears are wetting Eddie's collarbone. Eddie's hands tighten around his own. "Go kill It, Rich, and don't forget me." He punctuates it by a kiss, fleeting, barely a press of lips. He smells like fake lemon and blood. His lips taste like salt and iron and heartbreak. "I love you." Eddie says against his mouth, before pulling away, wiping a tear on Richie's cheekbone. "Don't you dare forget me, Tozier, or I swear I'll fucking kill you." 

*

He doesn't forget this time.

*

**Author's Note:**

> okayyy i hope you liked it i hope it wasnt too ooc i do project a LOT so i hope youre not just hearing me talk for example the gay bar scene is something that happened to me and i see no one talking abt that kinda thing so yknow its not that easy to just waltz in there ! btw if anyone cares my man marcus is now married to a trans woman (yes hes bisexual) and they love eachother very much
> 
> if you liked it consider leaving me a kudo or a comment !! they make my day for real and i respond to all of them 
> 
> the rumors are true i am on tumblr @augusteelpd and on twitter @pandibicth


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